The Living and The Dead
by HM Grayson
Summary: Andromeda would have much rather stayed at home and taken care of her grandson, but she can't: there is no one else left to claim the bodies. Regrettably, the dead are not the only ones taking refuge in Hogwarts.
1. Act I: Inhale

Spoilers: All seven Harry Potter books. Post-_Deathly Hallows._

Disclaimer: All characters involved were created by J.K. Rowling and I'm far too poor to buy them from her.

...

Act 1: Inhale

...

You bring the baby with you.

You realize it is rather distasteful and in a saner world, you would never have dreamed of doing so. But the fact of the matter is that there is no one else left to look after Teddy. He has to stay with you. You would much rather have stayed at home and taken care of your grandson, would have happily gone on ignoring the way your world was falling apart around you, but you can't.

There is no one else left to claim the bodies.

The grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry have been protected from almost the moment the school was built. You understand the rational. It probably saved more than one life earlier tonight, when it prevented fools from Apparating directly into the battle and instead forced them to make the same long trek that you find yourself currently travelling. You hate the thought of following in their footsteps, you've never been one for crowds, but you can't stop yourself from thinking of them. Maybe this was inevitable after all. Yes, it does feel preordained. Walking through the cool air in the faint early morning light with a child in your arms, destiny weighs down so heavily you aren't always sure you'll be able to keep going.

You try not to shiver among your fellow pilgrims as you walk towards the school, the last stand of the Dark Lord that was now a mass grave, a final testament to his awesome power. The witches and wizards around you must have been friends and family of the other casualties of war, but you feel no kinship with them. Rather, you long to order them to leave, to demand that they remove themselves and take away the looks that attempt to convey understanding. You want to be left alone to suffer in peace. The masses have never understood you and you have moved so far beyond their realm it really seems a futile effort to try and reconnect now.

The crying around you, however muffled, is beginning to bother Teddy and you are not sure you can keep him quiet if he were to begin to wail. The others are staring at your grandson and you glare back as imperiously as you can. The result is impressive; you did have the best teachers, after all.

Even if you had a choice about bringing Teddy, the crowd should realize that just because it was the end of the world, it doesn't mean they can abandon their manners. You think it is strange that you should sound so much like the mother you despised, now that you are just as empty as she was. You have always tried to be honest with yourself and sometimes you look back and wish you had been a little less so. But it is too late for that, so you find yourself admitting that if Druella Black was ever right about anything in her life, it was in regards to the disintegrating etiquette of the world at large.

Ted had been amused by your observance of strange, outdated protocol. The thought has no relevance to your current journey and you are surprised at its arrival. You are not surprised by the lack of fondness the memory holds. Ever since the Ministry was taken over by Death Eaters and Ted was forced to flee for his life, you find yourself unable to recollect your husband tenderly. The affection should return once your ordeal is over. If there is an end.

Undisturbed by your thoughts, since nothing has managed to disturb you lately, you continue walking. Finally, the old, battered castle emerges before you. Hogwarts has been beaten and then forced to witness the most ferocious fight in the wizarding world since the fall of Grindelwald and yet it still remains. For all that the Death Eaters have tried to destroy this last light of defiance, Hogwarts still stands. You suspect that even magic will not be able to restore the castle to even a tiny remnant of its former glory.

You fight back tears and force yourself through the splinters that had once protected the Great Hall. Teddy shifts but does not wake.

Inside the castle there is pandemonium. Families are hugging, friends are crying, forgotten acquaintances are shouting across the hall. Everyone is reaffirming their own survival. You are getting a headache.

You pull the hood of your cloak down to better survey the room. It would have been amusing at how quickly the looks around you went from curious to fearful to relieved but you can only feel annoyance that even dead Bellatrix still manages to be an inconvenience. Your resemblance had never been anything other than superficial, but with paranoia running high lately you had been taken for the Death Eater almost constantly. With Teddy in your arms, at least no one has acted on that first fearful impulse.

You search through the crowd, not caring when the eyes eventually recede. It's not difficult for you to pick out those in charge. You still have enough friends in strange places to keep yourself well informed. But your eyes travel through Kingsley Shacklebolt because you are not here for the Minister for Magic.

You are here for your daughter.

The makeshift morgue is easy enough to find. Pushing your way through the crowd to arrive there is more difficult, but even in their stupor, the crowds part for you. That at least is normal. When you were young, your beauty and blood attracted attention. Later it was because of your infamy, because no one had ever suspected the Blacks capable of what you had done. You have always been some sort of oddity. This is the first time it bothers you.

You wish you could want to be one of those people crying tears of joy, held in the warm arms of those who love them. It would be easier, you suspect, and maybe Teddy would not seem to be made of stone. But you have always been Andromeda Tonks. So you move forward, pace steady, and announce yourself.

There is a flurry of activity. Minerva McGonagall is in charge. She has been at Hogwarts a long time now—she taught you Transfiguration and made you wish you were an Animagus. Ted was in your N.E.W.T. class. You pretended to need help so he could tutor you, because...it had seemed like a good idea at the time. You probably wouldn't have fallen in love half as hard if he hadn't seen right through you.

You thought McGonagall could see through desktops, but now you realize it was merely a childish fantasy. Still, you find yourself admiring her. There are corpses on the floor wrapped in vibrant red and gold flags and yet McGonagall looks you in the eyes as always. Her wrinkled face has rivets running through it, but her voice does not waver as she greets you. She is polite and you want to smile, except you've forgotten how. She gestures for you to come and you are grateful because you haven't heard a word anyone has said to you since your daughter rushed off to never come back again.

You see the werewolf first, and you almost turn around right then. His face is unmarked and he seems happy in a way you cannot ever remember seeing him in life. Maybe he simply chose not to show you his joy. You could understand that. You resent him just the same.

Sirius introduced you...how many years ago? Too long. You didn't remember meeting him right away, the second time you met. It was shameful how little you recalled ten years later, when your daughter introduced him as her husband. Back then, you had liked him. Sirius needed quiet friends. What a difference time can make! Or maybe it was your daughter who was difference. Your cousin's quiet friend is a much different proposition than your daughter's much older werewolf husband, of that you are quite sure.

It is Remus's fault. You don't dwell on the feeling, but it is there and you won't pretend it isn't. There isn't anyone to pretend for. When Teddy can understand the words you say you will pick them carefully. His father will be a noble man, brave and determined to give his son a better life. It is the truth and you are sure Teddy will appreciate the caricature. When Teddy can read your face you will no longer think that his father was a coward who used your daughter abominably and then called her to her death. But your thoughts are your own for now and you let yourself cling to them a little longer.

They have placed the werewolf's wife beside him, but you don't begrudge him that. It is what she would have wanted. She was headstrong, your girl, and perhaps a little spoiled. You like to think she wasn't. Ted may have been more lenient than you could be, but she was not the type to exploit weakness. There was nothing much of you in her. She was warm and bright like her father. Her clumsiness was almost a foreign language to you. Everything about her was new and different, everything but the need to fight, to prove. It was you who got her killed, not Ted, though it was his blood that made it necessary for everyone to fight.

She is beautiful, your daughter. Lying beside the werewolf with her serene face you know it is not bias talking. It is fact. She is lovely in death and you find yourself holding almost too tightly to poor little Teddy. You can remember when she was the size that Teddy is now, when you could hold her as you hold him, when you could whisper words into tiny ears and have laughing eyes glance back at you. She was a beautiful baby, your Nymphadora.

Nymphadora. You can call her that now that she is dead. It was a rather dreadful name—pretentious, long and requiring the syllables be stressed in strange ways. Your mother must have had an apoplectic fit when she found out her unofficial granddaughter's name. It would have been too earthy a name for the stellar Blacks. It was why you had chosen it, after all. It grew on you as it never did her. It made you smile to hear everyone call her Tonks. You had wanted to spite your family and she had managed it in a way that was even more appropriate and that made you almost ashamed. There was no vengeance in your daughter. She was a beautiful woman. She would have made a good mother.

As it is, there is only you. The skills are rusty and you were never that good to begin with. Waking Teddy up takes only moments, moments that should be filled with doubt but are not. You never could afford doubt and now you can't afford anything at all.

"This is your mother and father," you say to a babe that cannot understand. You only hope he can remember. "They were very brave people."

Teddy looks and reaches out one pudgy arm instinctively towards the body of a woman who used to hold him with love. Gently, you take his hand and kiss his brow.

"Remember. Remember."

You whisper but it still comes out as a command.

Awake now, Teddy begins to become more alert. You allow this, until he begins to make noise. Only then do you slip the bottle out of your robes and feed it to him. Chances are Teddy Lupin will remember nothing of his parents. But you had to try. You owed it to Nymphadora and even Remus. Teddy falls asleep on your shoulder, victim of a sleeping draught, and you turn your eyes once more on his parents.

There should be tears. It seems strange that there are none. You loved your daughter, you are quite certain, even if you cannot remember the sensation. And you did like the werewolf, if only because he almost reminded you of you. You are sorry they are dead. But there are no tears.

McGonagall doesn't say anything, but in her silence you read no judgement and once more you wish you could smile at her. The arrangements you have made pour from your lips and she nods in the appropriate places. She will see to it, she promises. You believe her. She points a place that you can rest before you leave. The way she says it doesn't bruise your ego so you relent because you have been feeling very tried lately.

You don't make it to the table undisturbed.

Harry Potter is a brave boy. Harry Potter is a good boy. You were not very polite with him, but you still admire him and wished him well every night as the world collapsed. Harry Potter is an orphaned boy. But even that would not have frozen you in place when he approached since you felt no need for company.

But he is Teddy's godfather and what's done is done. Doing right by Teddy is all you can think of doing, so you do it.

"Mrs Tonks?"

His voice is respectful, but he can't help sounding just a little bit entitled. It is only natural. He has saved the wizarding world after all. Being everyone's saviour should provide him with a few extra perks and you can indulge him this.

"I'm very sorry."

You make suitable replies to his babbling. It would not do to seem ungrateful, because that is not true. You are sure you appreciate his gesture of respect, would gladly take the hand he offers in friendship, if only you could think properly. It is a considerate sign and you would not refuse it, even if you were capable of being contrary at this time. But you can't understand most of what he is saying. You don't want to. His memories of your daughter cannot be complete and you don't want to hear any more about the werewolf.

As he walks away you admire the strength in his stride, the way he holds his head high. Harry Potter is really an amazing person. That he should want to help out with your grandson—anyway he can, please Mrs Tonks—his regard is a great honour.

The resentment bubbles before you can stop it. You hear your mother's voice, a curse you thought you were finally rid of. She is telling you of the great honours you can bring on your family. It was so ingrained in your childhood that you can no longer accept anything with grace. His intrusion, however, well-meaning, seems suddenly just like one of those invitations to tea with those horrid pureblood snobs that you received all the time when you were younger. It is a chain and you have always rebelled against that.

And just when you feel the urge to smash your head against the unbreakable stone of the Great Hall, because anything would be better than hearing your mother's voice, you see her. They have separated the bodies, so you didn't notice her at first. But now she's all you can see.

Bellatrix.

Bellatrix Lestrange. The Dark Lord's right hand. Dead at the hands of Molly Weasley. Already the story has become legend and you know you won't be able to stand hearing it much more. The Death Eater still seems to be laughing, partial smile on an emaciated face. It makes you sick.

That is how you will look when you are dead. Maybe not the expression, but the resemblance, even after all this time, really is uncanny. Her hair was always a fraction darker and yours is undoubtedly cleaner, but besides that the features really are almost identical. It is almost reassuring to see what a handsome corpse you will make.

There is no sadness, staring at this body. There was a time when Bellatrix was your relation but it is long past. It lasted a little longer than Bellatrix thought, but not by much. Everyone must know it ended the moment you found out about the Longbottoms, but really it ended when Sirius was arrested. That moment, when you thought he had chosen her over you, pride over love, when you thought she had won, the thin strand of sisterhood had finally snapped.

Now Bellatrix is dead and you feel nothing.

Maybe nothing is the wrong expression. There is a little bit of satisfaction at viewing the corpse. She killed Sirius, after all. He had just returned from the dead and you had only taken a first, small step towards reconciliation, when she killed him. He had been the only blood relation you had—great Uncle Alphard had once sent you money, but you had given it to charity because you didn't want his money without his conversation. It really had almost killed you when you thought Sirius had murdered the Potters, when you thought your blood really was cursed. No one had bothered to enlighten you otherwise. Nymphadora had let the information slip only by accident. No one understood how painful Sirius's seeming betrayal had been. You hadn't told anyone, and you had survived, but it still hurts to remember.

The time, only a few months ago, when she tortured you for information on Harry Potter hurt less. You still don't know why she didn't take the opportunity to just kill you off, though you are glad that delight was at least denied her. If someone is going to kill you, you would rather them earn the honour somehow. It's strange to think she set foot in the home of an inferior just to torture you, but didn't bother to kill you. Then again, you never really understood her.

Death would have been a small revenge for all those years of not knowing. The only regret you have is that she didn't survive the battle long enough to be Kissed. If anyone deserved to meet the Dementors, it was Bellatrix.

It is in this rare moment of familial reflection that you see her. She is sitting at one of the tables in the Great Hall. It used to be the Slytherin table, predictably enough. The blonde woman is fussing over a thin boy with a haunted look on his face. Her hands never leave the boy, whether she is fixing his robes, clutching his hand, or brushing his hair. The boy lets her. He is sitting rigidly beside a man with dead eyes. Father and son sit side-by-side, shoulders pasted together and their eyes remain on one another.

The family glues your eyes to them. They are an attractive bunch, despite the suffering splattered all over them. A complete family is a rare thing to see in this time of war and there is no doubt that it is complete family. They are united, despite or because of the way the rest of the hall stares. Father, Mother, Son...they are not leaving each other's sides. It might as well be stitched on their clothing, it is that apparent to you. The rest of the hall seems to agree—no one has dared to try and separate them yet, though Shacklebolt and the other Aurors are watching them carefully.

They are the Malfoy family. You have never met Draco Malfoy, seventeen and already infamous in the wizarding world for his completely accidental yet no less essential assist in defeating the Dark Lord. He might not even know you exist even if he is technically your nephew. He looks like a weak, inconsequential teenager and you feel no pity for him. He was presented with the same choice you were and if he wasn't strong enough to make the right decision you won't spare him much emotion.

Lucius Malfoy is his father, a strict yet doting man you have heard. Too ambitious for a talentless son. He was a few years above you in school and friends with many of your friends. The two of you were never more than acquaintances, but you were more than civil. And then you were nothing.

He went to Azkaban and you are not sorry he lived his greatest fears over and over. Perhaps because you knew the man when you agreed with what he still believes in, but you never thought his other crimes that hideous. But he put his family in danger and that you cannot forgive.

But she can. It is obvious from the way she still looks at him with those adoring eyes, Narcissa Malfoy loves her husband. She holds no grudges for his weakness, for their suffering. She only wants to go home and be with her family.

Narcissa was once your family.

It is the closest to smiling you have come to in days. Once upon a time you would have died for Mrs Malfoy. Now you watch them and can barely contain your disgust. She is simple and pathetic and ruined and it causes quite a blow to your pride to think she could have once mattered to you. It hurts worse because you had once held such hope for Narcissa, who didn't hate you like the rest. Her silence was not cold like the others and was much preferable to Bellatrix's screams. You always thought that there could be some sort of a reconciliation, or at least an attempt at being civil, somewhere in the future once the crowd of old judges had conveniently gotten themselves killed or arrested.

That fantasy had lasted much longer than you want to admit. Long after it should have. You were still dreaming of a reunion as Narcissa plotted Sirius's death. That's when you finally realized that when you died, only you Nymphadora and Ted would care.

Your vision swims as you stare at them. You are invisible as always, but you can no longer see them clearly. There are no tears. You didn't cry for Ted, you won't cry for the Malfoys. But you feel so angry you can't see. Jaw clenched, you try not to scream. It wouldn't do to frighten Teddy.

When you were a child your parents not only bred you for competition, but nurtured those feelings, turning you into a bloodthirsty challenger. Bellatrix threw tantrums when she lost and Narcissa cried dainty tears, but you turned stony and silent and sulked until you had a new triumph to boast about. It seems funny that a tiny part of you remains that spoiled Black girl that you hate.

For you have lost and Narcissa has won and you are not sure how you will survive such a crushing blow. You're not sure you want to.

The rest of the Great Hall may not see it that way. The Aurors who circle her give you wide berth. Harry Potter has personally thanked you for your sacrifice and people look at you with respect. Minerva McGonagall clasped you on the back and if that isn't a sign that you are important than you wouldn't be able to recognize the wizarding world anymore. Meanwhile, you can hear the whispers about the Malfoy family, the mutterings and the curses. No one wishes them well, even if they can't stomach doing them harm. They are disgraced. It is only a matter of time before the Ministry confiscates as much of the Malfoy fortune as it can. Narcissa is virtually a prisoner and yet she has still won.

You wonder if she realizes it. Probably, if the way she smiles at her husband is any indication. Her thoughts may not dwell on you, but you are sure she knows that she has won a great victory over many on this day.

Long ago you traded your family for a better one, one you could love without feeling guilty. Narcissa learned to live with the guilt or to ignore it all together and there she sits, surrounded by love, while you hold a sleeping child to your breast and try not to glance at the body of your daughter.

You hate Narcissa.

No longer are you emotions dulled. There is a sharpness that you have not felt in quite some time but it is not unwelcome. Something solidifies within you and somehow you find the strength to stand up. The fire is back and you refuse to burn alone any longer.

Until it happens you have no exact plan. It was likely that creating some sort of scene might have satisfied you. But by the time you make your way over, the Aurors have beaten you to it. They are talking to the Malfoys in quiet tones. You spot Harry Potter in the crowd, not saying anything, wanting to be elsewhere, but doing his duty. Teddy would do well to learn from his godfather.

The problem is easy to understand from even the fragments of conversation you overhear. The Malfoys cannot be released without supervision, not until some sort of investigation has been completed, but there is a reluctance to send them back to prison. It takes no great empath to see that Lucius would rather die than return to Azkaban. The debate could go on for hours. You know bureaucracy well.

Speaking up wasn't part of the plan, but the words please you when you hear yourself say them. There is resistance, but you know how to get what you want. You always have. It is easy to dismiss doubts now, especially since your grandson's parents the martyrs of the hour. In the end, the Aurors agree with your plan.

"I'll watch them."


	2. Act II: Exhale

...

Act II: Exhale

...

You take custody of the Malfoy family the day your daughter dies. The house Ted Tonks bought was lonely when you left it and is lonely when you return, but it is no longer empty. The wards will keep everyone out, you promise. And in, you threaten. It gives you a little pleasure and you have to take what you want. You had an older sister who taught you that.

The Malfoys say nothing to you, but they are not ignoring you so you permit it. Three pairs of eyes watch your every move, too stunned to do anything other than what you demand. It is nice to feel powerful again. You enjoy it.

It is only as you climb up the stairs to show your prisoners where they can rest that you realize how foolish you are being. It is not worth these fleeting moments of control to have the Malfoys touching all that is closest to your heart. Your step almost falters as your mind begins to panic. Where can you put them? They can't be allowed to infect the only refuge you have left. That would be intolerable. This charade you play is supposed to trick you into thinking you've won after all, not make things worse.

"The guest bedroom is in a bit of disarray," you say, still leading the way. "The Ministry came looking for Ted and left it in chaos. I left it that way in hopes of compensation now that the Death Eaters are no longer in charge. But it doesn't appear that the Ministry will be functioning smoothly for quite a while so I can fix it up for the two of you."

Nymphadora's room would be the logical choice for the couple, but you reject that. You might be able to stomach the thought of the boy in there, but not his parents. Even having Draco in the room of a cousin he didn't know might be too much. At least you could put the teenager on the couch.

It doesn't come to that. Before you can make up your mind—if you ever could have—Narcissa speaks up.

"Would it be possible for Draco's bed to be brought to that room? We want to stay together."

There is a reprimand in there, somewhere. If you had stayed with your husband, with your daughter, if you hadn't cowered in this modern monstrosity of a house while they went off to die, perhaps you could have saved them. Maybe you would be the one with the family at the end of it all.

The Ministry should execute the Malfoys together. It is only fitting.

"I can transfigure a cot for him." You look at the boy. He flinches. "Would that be all right?"

"That's fine," he mutters, so quietly you can barely hear him.

It is hard to miss the covetous look on Lucius's face when you pull out your wand. One of the conditions for this arrangement is that you not allow the three of them access to a wand. They have none of their own. A wizard without a wand is like a book without pages—useless and nonsensical. It is not for cruelty's sake that you wave yours around the guest bedroom, neatening up everything. You take a dark sort of pleasure from it, nonetheless.

"You cannot leave the grounds. I will provide lunch and dinner, at twelve and seven, respectively. There is food in the kitchen if you require breakfast. Help yourself. Simply keep this room relatively neat and refrain from wandering around the rest of the house. Only the drawing room downstairs is open to you. Understand? Is there anything else you need?"

They shake their heads and you turn go. But Draco's innocent question stops you short.

"Who are you?"

The boy looks confused, his mother embarrassed and his father exhausted. That Narcissa should feel even the smallest of vestiges of guilt is surprising and relatively amusing. She probably feels more uncomfortable at her son's forthright manner than his lack of knowledge, but you don't look at her much so you can't be too sure.

"I'm Andromeda Tonks. Mrs Tonks to you. This is Teddy. You are not to touch him, nor come near him under any circumstances. Is that understood?"

He looks almost petulant and rolls his eyes. You say nothing else, but leave them in peace. That they should have that while you pace the floor and try to cry angers you, but there is nothing to be done. You don't contemplate doing them harm. They will never see you sink to their level.

...

Teddy sleeps fitfully now that his mother is dead. He used to be a happy, energetic baby, who often exhausted himself. Now he whimpers for someone who cannot come and you are useless to help. Instead, you pace the kitchen and hope the sound of your footsteps will lull the miserable child to sleep eventually.

If he were to fall asleep you would be faced with the more pressing problem of trying to get yourself to sleep. It has been almost a week since you last slept naturally and you know enough about potions to know that you are dangerously close to abusing your supply of Sleeping Draught. Still your mind keeps whirling, picturing all of the many things you could have done different. That and meditating on Harry Potter.

Harry Potter. Saviour of the Wizarding World. Brave boy. Clever boy. Suddenly, he is the bane of your existence. You aren't sure how that happened.

The Boy Wonder has been polite when he contacts you, kind and compassionate some recently buried part of you acknowledges. His pretty words cannot disguise the fact that he is far too eager to help you for your liking. He wants to see his godson—not just once a year or once a month, but what seems to you like every second of everyday. Harry Potter might be the very best person to steal your grandson away from you, but the fact of the matter remains that Teddy is yours and you will kill Harry Potter if he does not leave you in peace.

His help is appreciated, but not needed. Not wanted. He cannot understand the desperation you feel as you hold your grandson. Why should he? And why should you explain yourself to him? He should leave you to your own devices. You will allow him to see Teddy often, often enough for them to have some sort of a relationship. You must give the werewolf that. But you will not lose another drop of your blood to an outsider you are forced to tolerate. No more.

When you sit down at the table, the exhaustion hits you straight through, and you can feel deeply buried parts of yourself aching for release. Teddy is asleep now and you watch his tiny little face. His hair still turns strange colours during the day and it is beginning to be less painful to watch. You cannot decide if that is a welcome change or not.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs reach you before their creator, giving you time to plan strategy. You could flee—you have been doing much of that lately. Even mealtimes, which you had planned to use an opportunity to gloat. The first night the look on their faces had convinced you that more punishment was not needed. Now you leave them alone. But it is late and this is still your house. You stay seated.

Draco is surprised to see you and says as much. "I hope you don't mind. I just can't sleep," he concludes, so you find yourself shaking your head.

"Just stay quiet. I only just got Teddy to sleep."

He nods and pours himself a glass of milk. Maybe in another life he would have muttered a quick charm to heat it, but now he is too powerless and too proud to ask for your help. Maybe you have more in common with him than you realize.

"My mother said you were her sister."

The words echo in your ears. You stare at the boy in disbelief. He fidgets under your gaze, only now realizing what a mistake he has made. But he does not run. Maybe he still hasn't learned his lesson. Maybe he has learned it too well. You do not care to know.

The past tense hurts, a little. When you were younger you thought things like sisters were forever. Knowing differently is uncomfortable. Analyzing the facts reveal that it really is the truth. Narcissa and Andromeda Black were sisters. Narcissa Malfoy might as well be an alien for all you know her.

"I was."

"Is that why you took us in?"

Is it? That's a good question and you aren't sure how to answer. Can you really still have some sort of loyalty toward Narcissa, even after everything she has failed to do? There isn't much loyalty left in you, there never was, and you somehow can't believe you would give the last of it to that ungrateful princess. At the same time, what other reason could there possibly be? Vengeance, perhaps, but if that was truly the reason you should be more brutal. Maybe it is some strange mixture of the two, and the fact that you cannot stand being alone right now. This house needs people in it, even people you hate, or you know you will lose this strange battle you are fighting against the hopelessness.

"Did you have any place else to go?"

It is an easy technique your father taught you. If you don't want to answer, ask a question. It doesn't always work, but it does tonight.

"No."

He whispers and your heart melts just a little bit. Because the Dark Lord was good at killing things and innocence is the only thing that is impossible to get back, even if you are a witch. You reach inside your robes and pull out your wand.

"It helps you to sleep better if it's hot. Would you like that?"

He nods and holds out his glass. You hold out your wand, instead. He looks unsure, but after a moment he takes the wooden instrument and performs the simple charm. Then he holds the wand, just long enough that someone else would be getting nervous. He wants the power or perhaps just the normalcy. Whatever he wants, he wants it desperately. You understand. He hands the wand back eventually and you take it without comment.

You don't want to have a conversation with the boy, but at this moment it is hard to forget how terribly lonely you are. Your friends try and offer unwelcome sympathy so you have started avoiding them. Harry Potter is trying to steal your grandson. You have no other family. Draco will have to do. You are a little curious about him. Curiosity is good. It feels strange, after all this time, but you think you could be comfortable with it again.

"Is your bed not comfortable? Or would you prefer a room of your own?"

"Oh no." Eyes downcast, he admits, "It's just that Father isn't sleeping well and Mum sends me out of the room. They don't like talking about what it was like for him. He had a bad time of it in Azkaban."

"They always do. She's taking care of him?"

"She always looks out for us." He says it proudly. It is funny seeing such youthful faith in a boy who should know better by now. You suppose it shows that despite her flaws Narcissa made a very good mother. Draco seems so happy to be talking about her it's almost embarrassing. "She always used to come with us when we went to Quidditch games even though she doesn't know anything about it, just to keep us company."

Narcissa dated enough Quidditch players that you doubt his statement. But hearing Draco talk about Quidditch reminds you that teenage wizards are always going to love their Quidditch. It makes you feel less old.

"Did you play for your school team?"

"I've been a Seeker since second year. I was supposed to be Captain this year."

His face falls and something aches in you, so you interrupt. "I was a Captain and Seeker too."

"For what House?"

"Slytherin." You don't mean to lecture, but you can't help it. "The only Black in three hundred years that wasn't in Slytherin was Sirius." Quickly, you move on. "I was captain of the squad for three years. We won every year, though in my sixth we went into the final down four hundred and seventy points and then a hurricane started up."

"That was you?"

His awed tone flatters you, even though you're old enough that you should know better. "It was."

"That's amazing. That game is classic. Dad showed it to me once, but he never said—bloody wicked that you played in it. I can't believe you were captain of one of the best teams in Slytherin history."

"It was," you agree. For the first time in a long while you think back to when you were still proud to wear the silver and green. A startling realization comes to you. "I'm the only one left. The only one still alive."

The truth makes you sick, but it is inescapable. The team roster is suddenly fresh in your mind. Wilkes, Meadows, Parkinson, Wilkes, Lestrange, Rosier and Black. You were a bloody good team. And now everyone else is a bloody corpse. That shouldn't surprise you. The same could probably be said about many Slytherin teams.

"I'm sorry," you say when you realize just how awful this train of thought is. "I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay." But it's not.

Quidditch used to be your life, but you stopped thinking about it when it got to painful. But now it's impossible to forget that the next Seeker on the Slytherin team was also named Black. You had trained Regulus yourself, when you were younger, up until you weren't allowed to go near him anymore. He had a great build for it, even if he wasn't exceptionally naturally talented. He was too timid to be great, but he had been above average.

You think about Regulus, sometimes, even more so since the Malfoys have come. Draco's sort of reminds you of him, or at least Regulus is the relative that Draco resembles most. But Regulus had managed to make one last stand for what he truly believe. Draco still hadn't figured out the concept of a stand.

What was it that you had said to Regulus when he told you he had finally seen the light? You can hear the words in your head even now…_I'm not going to cry when I hear you've been killed._ It was a lie, but you had to say it. He had tried to apologize and you didn't want that. You just wanted him to go out and make a difference. You hadn't let him leave with only those words, however; you had some mercy in you.

_Sirius might_…to a younger brother who had been treated second best for most of his life, it was the best gift you could give, even if he pretended he didn't appreciate it. You had no idea how true it would turn out to be.

Not that you had seen Sirius cry after Regulus's disappearance. Sirius would have chosen death first. But there was a difference in Sirius after Regulus's death that was undeniable. A difference you couldn't pin down, but one that let you think that maybe he might have gone back to the family after all.

"My friend Crabbe died," Draco says. His voice pulls you out of your memories. You focus on his ghosts, not yours. His head is bowed but you keep your eyes on Teddy so as to give him as much privacy as possible. "At least, I thought he was my friend. We were together for years, but I wasn't very nice to him. He died trying to kill Potter. I'm not allowed to be sorry but..."

You don't know why he is telling you this, but you feel sympathy just the same. And pity, because you think part of him does realize the futility of mourning those who got themselves killed for the wrong side. But you don't survive that way.

He continues, "I can't tell Father, or even Mum, because they're too worried about it looking like we're on turning bad again. But I can't help it. It's always been me, Crabbe and Goyle. What am I supposed to do now?"

If you had an answer to give him, he wouldn't be in your house. The Malfoys would be huddled in some cell in some dark prison and you would not be thinking of them at all. But you have no answer. The world you inhabit is empty and you don't know if is even possible to survive it.

"You hope you can forget," you mumble and hope he doesn't hear.

The conversation is effectively over the second Narcissa tears through the doorway. Her hair is dishevelled, her face pale as she makes her way to Draco's side, hands seeking for confirmation that his presence is not merely wishful thinking. Almost the way you would look if they told you Nymphadora was still alive somewhere, you just couldn't see her. You've never really seen the resemblance between Narcissa and you until this moment and it throws you, completely. Why should there be any sort of connection between the two of you now when you would despise all similarities?

Narcissa touches her son, holds him close and then briskly commands, "You should come back to bed. You wouldn't want to disturb our host."

Their jail keeper.

But there is no comfort in this. There is no comfort in anything anymore. It is suddenly intolerable, to see Narcissa standing there, free to go touch those that she loves. The shouting in your head drowns out Draco's response. He must have said goodnight, so you say it as well but you can't be sure it was at the right time. It doesn't matter—you don't care what he thinks of you if only he will leave.

"How did you manage this?" You are standing up, hissing in the darkness, trying to strike at something so you can feel it strike back.

Narcissa stops in the doorway and turns around to stare at you in a way that makes you yearn to slap her into unconsciousness. "What are you talking about?"

"How did you manage to beat me?"

It is just the two of you standing in the kitchen Ted Tonks drank his morning coffee in. You can almost hear him whistling. It's enough to make you scream. Her face is stiffening though you are pretty sure you see a little bit of fear. Good.

"This is not a game," she replies. Her gaze stays firmly on you, big blue eyes staring in horror. Like you disgust her, like you are beneath her. You expected that. It does not bother you. Her words, however, make you cringe. "You know, you always were remarkably like Bella about some things."

"Too bad she's dead."

She flinches, Narcissa Malfoy. She does not have her sister's wild abandon. She tries to flee without a backwards glance. Now what makes her think you can allow that?

"Why did she do it?" you demand. "He was her cousin, her family. How could you let her kill him?"

"Azkaban changed her. It changes them all," and Narcissa's worry is easy to see. "Bella went mad—madder. There was nothing holding her back, in the end."

"And you? Why did you do it? Sirius was always kind to you."

Much kinder than she ever deserved. Well, maybe kind wasn't the right word. Despite your love, you can admit that Sirius was not the sort who engaged in kindness very often. But the two of them had been close when they were younger, when they were the two members of the Black family closest in age. You had only gotten close to your cousin after you had been disowned, and you sometimes suspect he pursued a relationship with you just to be contrary. It wouldn't surprise you to learn that—not that it would diminish the bond between the two of you. Those of the outside are always connected, even if they would rather not be.

Narcissa has never been an outsider, not until now, though this situation is probably only temporary. She has always been pretty and popular and despite the fact Sirius was in Gryffindor, those were the qualities he appreciated. And if all of Hogwarts was prepared to worship Sirius, Narcissa couldn't be unfashionable and dislike him. Until Sirius left home, of course. After that, there was no turning back.

You can't take the accusation back now either, even if you had wanted to, and maybe you do, because you can't help but like the dead air. Bringing up the past can never be a good idea, not when it as ugly as it between the two of you. At the same time, you want to see if it's possible for her to take even a little responsibility.

"I had to. The Dark Lord—"

"Don't." The screaming has stopped; the flames have gone out. You don't want to hear it anymore. You might have to feel sorry for her and you really couldn't handle that. "Just don't."

There is a moment when you think she is going to try, that she might just reach for you. And then her back stiffens almost imperceptibly. "Goodnight, Mrs Tonks."

"Goodnight, Mrs Malfoy. Please ask your husband to keep the screaming to a minimum tonight. I hate being disturbed when I'm trying to sleep."

"Of course," she says stiffly and then she is running from you as fast as she can—faster than Druella would say was proper.

You look down at Teddy in your arms. He has woken up, big eyes looking at you in wonder. Teddy smiles up at you.

It doesn't make it better.

...

When the letter comes, you read it over twice, just to make sure. It wouldn't do to be careless in this sort of situation. The words remain the same the second time through, so you stand up and walk into the sitting room to discuss the development with your prisoners.

Narcissa is nowhere to be seen this early in the morning; she will come down in time for lunch, but not before. Breakfast has to be brought up to her on a tray. Lucius doesn't seem to mind so you allow it. If he is content with his wife lounging upstairs while he sits on the couch and stares at nothing, you are not going to force him to become upset.

Draco is seated across from his father, the chessboard between them. A quick glance shows that Draco is winning, but he does not seem pleased. Lucius doesn't look much like he cares, but his son clearly is uncomfortable with his father's lack of fight. You decide to give the boy a moment of peace.

"I received a letter from the Ministry today," you say without preamble. Lucius barely turns his head, but Draco's grey eyes snap to you. "The Manor has been thoroughly searched and the evidence catalogued. They have managed to arrange for a company of Aurors to guard you until your hearing, scheduled in three months time. You will be escorted back to your home at noon tomorrow."

"Understood," Lucius mutters, eyes turning to your fire place.

You hate seeing men defeated, even if they are your enemies, but at the same time, you want to shake him, scream at him, cuss at him until your mother rises from the grave to reprimand you. He brought this on himself—he could at least muster some dignity in defeat.

"That's great," Draco says with a fleeting smile at you. You nod your agreement and he feels brave enough to add, "It'll be good to be back in the Manor again, won't it Father? It won't be like before."

A shiver goes through the boy, but his father doesn't notice. He directs a comment at you, instead. "The House Elves will have been taken, I suppose."

"Indeed. You may wish to caution your wife that some of her jewellery will not have survived. The Ministry assures me that everything irrelevant to the charges against you was left, but I'm sure there are Aurors out there who wouldn't hesitate to extract a little vengeance." You can't help adding, "It is only fair, after all."

"Indeed," Lucius agrees.

He may have lost, but he still knows the rules. You always did like that about Lucius. He may have been a bloody overconfident, greedy, power-hungry murderer, but if you knew that about him, there was an accepted behaviour, a long list of protocol that was always followed. He may have cheated, but it was always in the same sort of ways. You always did like consistency.

"Seeing as my time with you is almost up," you say, settling down on the armchair between the two Malfoy men, "I find myself curious. I hope you don't find this rude, but I had always wondered why I wasn't killed when the Dark Lord returned. It was almost a little disappointing, really."

There is no shame in Lucius as he brings his eyes to yours. He traded that away years ago, along with everything else but his pride. And since Harry Potter has stolen even that, there is nothing much left of the man. So he answers.

"We wanted to. Bellatrix in particular lobbied the Dark Lord to have you executed. But we couldn't."

"Couldn't? I didn't know Death Eaters knew boundaries existed."

Draco flinches, Lucius does not.

"You were a symbol. The Dark Lord didn't want the world to know he had returned. Your death would have been a warning sign to all but the most obtuse wizards and witches. They had to expect us to go after you—the biggest blood traitor of them all. Your death could have rallied them. We weren't going to take that risk."

You smile at bit, to yourself, of course. A symbol. It fits you well. Not flesh and blood and breaking heart, but a symbol. The Mudblood's Wife. The Bloodtraitor. Titles they gave you that became something more, greater than you ever could. You are what the purebloods should be, in the eyes of those that have the luxury to judge. And the Dark Lord couldn't kill that—and He knew better than anybody that death only gives more power to ones enemies. You would have been untouchable, dead.

You would have been happier too, but that is neither here nor there.

"Thank you, Lucius. I appreciate your candour. I was also wondering—"

But your query is interrupted by the sound of wailing. With an abrupt nod, you stand. "Please excuse me."

Up the stairs you stalk, hurrying to Teddy's side. He screams without faltering and you wonder if he could suffocate before you get there. Your step does not increase, still too used to maintain appearances, to hiding your fear, but your fingers twitch and once the door is closed behind you, you all but sprint to the bassinet.

He is still alive, your daughter's son, as you gently scoop him up and bring him to your breast. Teddy has tears on his face and bright magenta hair, but he is so incredibly beautiful, it is your breath that stops.

Gently, you begin to rock him back and forth, humming in the back of your throat. It never worked on Nymphadora—you always had to call for Ted and his booming, beautiful baritone to help calm her down.

The pain you feel is sudden and sharp, like a glass shard through your chest. You pull Teddy away, foolishly expecting to see blood blossoming through the front of your robes. There is nothing. Of course there is nothing.

But it still hurts. And now that you've stared you can't stop.

Ted singing with the voice that could be heard through the house, songs that sometimes made you blush and sometimes made you laugh. Ted laughing, loud enough that sometimes you thought the neighbours were bound to complain. Ted walking beside you, arms swinging as they pretended to casually brush yours until you gave a snort of impatience and just grabbed his hand. Ted smiling at you from across the table as he mocks your first sad attempt at cooking without magic and then, later, smiling in approval as you made that pie all by yourself. Ted holding you at night, always gently, whether you were gasping in pleasure or holding back tears as you tried to forget, always forget, as you tried to keep the past firmly behind you.

What a little fool you are! To think you could do what no one else has done and free yourself from the past.

Reborn as Andromeda Tonks as you might have been, there is no escaping Andromeda Black and the nightmares she has, the blood in her veins, the damnable pride that holds her together.

But Ted loved her—Black or Tonks, Ted loved Andromeda.

He loved her always. And she, you, loved him.

Every one of the broken pieces left in you loved him. Unconditionally. Forever. More than you ever dreamed possible. Until the day Nymphadora smiled up at you, with that blue hair sticking up every which way and you knew that it was possible to love until you had to burst.

You started smiling more, after your daughter was born. Ted noticed and was glad. Sirius noticed and teased you. Narcissa noticed and no longer met your eye. None of them mattered because you finally understood. When you loved someone like that, you couldn't keep that sort of joy to yourself. It just had to come through.

"Oh, Ted," you call to the darkness. "Oh Ted, I need you. Our little girl, Ted, our little girl is dead. And you aren't here. Oh—" The pain returns and leaves you gasping for air. With a plea that sounds weaker than you've ever allowed yourself to be, you gasp, "Oh, Ted. How could you leave me when I need you so?"

There is no answer. Even half-mad as you fear you've become, you expect none. The breath in your lungs is harsh, painful, and your ears are burning as you blink furiously, knowing that if you break now there will be no one left to pick up the pieces. The silence crushes you, but you swallow and hold your head high and eventually the pressure recedes.

Andromeda Tonks, symbol. You can do that. You have no choice. You refuse to break and this is the only other option.

You glance down, grateful to see that Teddy has stopped crying. Carefully, you place a light kiss on his forehead and make sure to gently brush away his tears.

...


	3. Act III: Inhale

...

Act III: Inhale

...

Knitting is for old people. You thought that when you were a child and you think it now, as your fingers move the needles in a steady rhythm. Knitting is for people who have finished with their lives, you amend. Or creative people, people who enjoy scratchy clothing in funny colours. You are not the second type of person, however much you would prefer it. No, you are knitting because there really is nothing else left for you to do.

The house is empty. Harry Potter came over earlier and asked if he could bring Teddy over to the Weasley's for someone's birthday. If anyone would know how to take care of a child, it is Molly Weasley, with her brood of hundreds. You didn't hesitate, even as your insides twisted and you tasted ashes. You let Harry Potter take your grandson.

The Malfoys have been gone a long time now. It takes you a moment, but you eventually conclude it has been six months. The trial ended a few weeks back—the punishment was harsh but not impossible and nowhere near what they deserved, nearly everyone agrees. You suspect that even the Ministry realized that the shame would do the Malfoys in, no matter what other punishment was handed out.

You have received no thank you card. You didn't expect one, not really, but it gives you a tiny bit of satisfaction to have this one last thing to lord over Narcissa's pretty, empty head.

In silence and loneliness you pick up the knitting needles. They were a gift, given so long ago you cannot remember whom exactly they are from, though you suspect Ted's mother. They are long, cool and a gleaming white, but their edges are dulled. Up and around they go, never stopping, never slowing, but not doing much else either. There is no joy in knitting.

Even the red woollen scarf that you are making gives you no pleasure. Teddy must be warm this winter you think practically, because that is the only way you can, so you make him a scarf. What joy could there be in something so plain, so ordinary and so simple?

The sun beats down as the needles move back and forth. You are protected by the shade, where you sit on a chair Ted built. The pain that accompanies this thought is sharp, but endurable. You are getting better at handling it. A deep breath helps you calm down and then the needles resume their clacking.

Sometimes, if you are lucky, you can remember the love as well as the pain. They are growing more frequent, those moments, but you are too scared to hope that one day you might forget the pain entirely. The nights are still bad. In the dark it is impossible to hide how lost, how in over your head, how hopeless you are as you reach for a man who is no longer there. At night, you have to forget you loved Ted or you would not survive. But here in the sunlight, you let the piercing pain come, glad to remember him once again. He deserves that much, at least.

The scarf grows long in your lap, but you do not watch it. You stare at nothing and everything but you think of neither. The only sound is the click-clack of the needles and it becomes your only thought as you breathe in and out on the sunny day that mocks your unhappiness.

The cracking of the air breaks the frozen moment and you focus your attention on the newly Apparated intruder. With a start, your back straightens as you greet your guest.

"Good afternoon, Draco. Is there something I can help you with?"

The boy blushes, a hand behind his back. There is a second, of course, where you hope he has come here to kill you, but you force the thought away. Ted wouldn't approve and you are trying so desperately to do right by him, even when you are not quite sure of anything anymore.

You never thought you would see Draco Malfoy again, except sometimes in Diagon Alley, in passing, where the two of you would carefully pretend not to know one another. To see him again on your property, and so soon too, throws your carefully rebuilt world off balance once more.

He fidgets as you regain control over yourself and sit back down on your chair. He looks better than the last time you saw him, well fed and well rested. Home has been good to Draco. You wonder, idly, if the same can be said about his parents. You hope not.

"They lifted house arrest yesterday," he begins. You are surprised, you thought the Ministry would hold out just a little longer. They must be shorter staffed than you thought. "Um...that's when I visited some of my friends. They seemed well."

"I'm glad to hear it," you say. Is it a lie? You don't have time to wonder or not. The social niceties will be preserved and you can focus more fully on the strange puzzle that Draco presents to you, stammering and blushing in your yard as he is.

"Mum and Dad don't know I'm here. I thought it best not to tell them—Dad's still under a lot of stress and Mum was rather nervous after we left here and I didn't want to remind her of anything..." he trails off, uncertain of what he means.

Luckily, you understand. This, at the very least, you understand. "You wanted to protect her."

"Yes," he nods. His eyes light up. "Yes, that's it. You upset her, but she was glad they didn't throw us in Azkaban for those two months and I thought, that is, they've always taught me to behave. Properly, I mean. And I just thought, er, they think it too, they just can't say it because of—I don't know why, not really, but I think you do and—"

He looks so confused that you find yourself attempting to reassure him. "Would you like something to drink first, Draco? It's rather hot, today."

"I'm fine. I can't stay long, anyway. Dad thinks someone might try something and they both worry when I'm not where I say I'll be. So I have to hurry back."

He seems tired of his own fumbling, for he finally just thrusts his arms out, something clutched tightly in his left hand.

"Here," he says. "When they sacked the Manor, they left all my old toys about. I found this, but I thought you might want it. Everyone needs one, but I didn't see one at your house."

You stare at the miniature broomstick in his hand, unsure at first. Unsure it really is what you see? It is clearly a broomstick, rather like the one you trained on when you were a child, before you went off to Hogwarts and played on much bigger and nicer brooms. Unsure what it means? Draco probably doesn't know himself and you cannot divine the truth from a muddled mind. Unsure that you should accept? But why shouldn't you? Your hospitality has earned you this, at the very least.

It comes to you, as you reach out and gently pull the broom into your own arms. As you caress the knotted wood you realize you knew the second you saw the tiny broom that you had lost your war. Taking it has merely sealed your fate.

You start to cry.

After all this time, there is no silent droplets of water, that leak out of the corners and drip quietly down your chin. The floodgates have opened and there is no more being decent and composed. When the tears come, they come like a hurricane, and you are helpless in their path.

Your eyes burn. Your throat stings. There is a heat in your ears and eyes and nose. Your face is wet, from water and mucus and you try and wipe it off, you try and stay composed, but there is no use. Your breath is ragged and then it is broken and all you can do is gasp for air.

The sounds coming from your throat cannot be from you, not Andromeda Tonks or Black or anything resembling a witch. They are from a wounded animal. It is humiliating and painful—it feels so bloody good.

The knitting falls away. Your hands are too busy shaking to hold it properly. Instead, you cling to the wooden toy and rock yourself back and forth, finally letting yourself acknowledge your pain. Losing Ted and Nymphadora, losing the life you had careful along with yourself—you can suddenly grieve for all that and more. So you let yourself, because you might not have this opportunity again. There is no hate or pride or any stubbornness left. There is only love.

You taught Nymphadora how to ride on a broom similar to the one in your hand as Ted watched from the porch, laughing. She was a natural, your girl, and you had smiled in pride, pride born of love and light and not the anchor that your family had placed around your neck. Your lips twist up, in a similar way now and you cry and smile because you had been so happy once upon a time and even if it hurts to remember, there are good things about remembering too.

Too caught up in your terrifying release, you don't hear Draco approach. Only the feel off the stiff hand on your back catches your attention. Voice low and unsure, he mumbles above you, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too," you say. "I'm always so sorry."

The breath you take flutters, but you manage to inhale all the way. It helps calm you, just enough so you can glance up at the child through your tears. He is frightened but still patting you awkwardly on the back. He is used to being coddled but not comforting and you are glad to help with this small task.

"Thank you," you say, clutching tighter at the wood. "Thank you, Draco. Teddy doesn't have one—I didn't even think of it. Thank you."

You rise and he backs away, slightly, but not too much. He is learning to give in and yet hold his ground. Maybe one day there will be hope for Draco Malfoy. Leaving the broom in your chair, you take his delicate white hand in your own worn ones. Your hands are wet from tears but you hope he realizes it is not impoliteness, merely the only way you have to express your gratitude for what he has just so innocently done.

"Thank you," you whisper and he bows his head slightly.

When he looks up, you let go and nod—he should not linger here. He gives a cautious smile and you return it. You smile back. When he turns, you doubt you'll ever see him again, but when he reaches the bottom step he turns around one more time.

"Goodbye Mrs Tonks. Good luck."

"Draco—" He watches as you try and choose your words carefully. You don't want to promise him anything, because the only promises he needs are the ones he has to make to himself. But you want to give him hope, the way he gave it to you. With a true, full smile you say, "If you keep this up, maybe one day you'll be able to look in the mirror again."

"Maybe," he says as his face crumples into itself. He takes out his wand and Apparates away.

You sit down on the porch step. Your body lacks grace now that your heart is full with it. You can already picture Teddy on the broom, zooming across the fields as you run after him, laughing and begging him to stop, just so his little face will set itself and he will go just a little bit faster.

Nymphadora loved you. Before and after Remus, your daughter loved you. Ted loved you. There was something inside of you worth loving and you can find it and when you do you will give it to Teddy. You've done it before. You can do it again.

Maybe you could invite Harry Potter over for dinner on Friday. You should get to know the boy better, since it seems like he is as eager to raise your grandson as you are. Inviting the Weasley girl might be another good idea—you remember hearing that they are together. It might be more enjoyable for him that way. It wouldn't do to be rude.

The sun has dried your tears as you pick yourself up off the steps. You have lived and loved and lost, lost so much you didn't think it was possible to be whole once again. You do now. It won't be soon, the ache in your heart reassures you of that. But there is Teddy to love and you are sure you can love him now. You just needed a little reminder, that's all.

Once upon a time a girl with brown hair and dark eyes lost everything. And once upon a time the woman who emerged from her ashes lost everything again. The trials you have endured are numerous but as you stand in the sun and wait for your grandson to come home so you can kiss him and sing to him and tickle his chubby little belly, you know that it is not about enduring. It is not about winning or losing or triumphing at the end. It is something more.

You have survived, but more than that, you have lived. And one day, you promise yourself, one day soon, you will remember how to laugh again.

...

The End


End file.
